Rome in July is a hot weather. The facades of the buildings will explode in the face, flooded with sunlight. The colors are lost in the white light, and form geometric shapes of bright light, which intersect with the black shadows of buildings, forming a picture made of broken shapes, light and shadow. Similar to the Nung river in Apocalypse Now, the road winds through the city like an electric cable, but at the end of my journey Colonel Kurtz there's no waiting, only one office of circosrcrizione, with its cool shade and the screams of dozens of people waiting for identity cards, which require a change of residence. No horror, then, can no epiphany, no dissolution only the routine of an average citizen, a number to take to put a signature.
Within the office of the town, where I expected the loud voices of other people like me. An old woman undone, with a 'unlikely hairstyle, standing behind a glass door, shouting information to the right and left, while others are crowded around with the sheets in hand, ask questions, from all the surrounding . The lady seems overwhelmed by the crowd, some have gone behind the door, I'm afraid that will not make it, I fear that succumb to the demands of citizens frustrated. I see it disappear for a moment behind the backs and heads of the users. But just when I think it's a goner, I see the crowd pushed back by angry shouts and insults. The woman comes out from behind the mass of people, such as when Bud Spencer shakes off hordes of bad guys with a cry hoarse and manly. The employee, in the wake of his newfound aggressiveness, as a kind of warrior god thunders against cazziatoni colleagues running around the door without bothering the user, while others crowd behind me pushing to enter.
The picture you have in public is always the same: two hours and a half hours in the morning and two hours of the afternoon in odd-numbered days. A lot of people with needs as diverse as it is normal that takes place in a big city. Three officials in an uninformed and incompetent are left to mix with users, while two run from room to room, showing off an air distraught and helpless.
After half an hour since I got hold of the module that serves me, the woman at the door announces the closing, they close the door, we pull over a tent and then heads to the machine that distributes the numbers, pompously called turn-o-matic ", and with the frown of those who are doing their jobs conscientiously, and began to pull out of the car all the remaining numbers. When a latecomer, I do not know which door to enter, ask to take the number, the answer can only be ultimately inevitable, dried, as only highly dysfunctional in an office like this you can hear: "I'm finished."
About an hour after the end of the monstrous turn of two and a half hours, the district does not get any more.
When my turn came to receive the document, ask the clerk three copies of the paper. She raises an eyebrow, sideways glances at me and then says sarcastically: "Of course, I make ten!" And bursts into a fat laugh. Time for action: five minutes slow. Accumulated frustration: over the alert level.
I leave the infernal boomy and pockets my scooter carrier broke through with 125, parked in the sun. The seat is likely to leave me a hot branding on the buttocks with the texture of the jeans. Reversal of the powerful medium and I'm back on the road. While across town at two in the afternoon, incattivito by recent events, I drive aimlessly at the sun dazzling, half-conscious, as if in a trance.
The heat is starting to give me head, quivering air that rises from the asphalt I see emerge, like a Fata Morgana, Brambilla minister who wants to ban the Palio because there is "ashamed" in front of foreigners. Instead she created the site to know our country is not a disgrace, where "beaches" is translated "Plagues" in French, and that "plagues". It is a shame the unemployment rate in Italy. I'm not a shame the relationship between state and mafia. It is a shame that all this does not seem to exist for our politicians. No. 'The Palio of Siena. Fuck.
Boredom. I do not know why else pushed me to find a sense of discomfort to the average citizen. Create relationships between events, the source sound of a name, read the wreckage left on the roadside as a metaphysical map of lazy, self-destructive and irresponsible, to explain the absurdity of a district office, the grim silence which surrounding the killing of state. Reading the signs, find the meanings. Activity counter that soon brings you to the block of brain function, because you know that this is uncomfortable for most of us, the best of all possible worlds. So I can only imagine a dull, yellow, trumpet crazy that impinge upon the development of my glass, which shattered the screen on which is projected this story slow and sloppy.
The sweat slides down my forehead on the glasses, tarnished view. From the heights of heaven, I seem to see Alf, the friendly alien nosed proboscis, which I called from the zenith. It kicks, smiles and invites me to climb. I realize that it's really him, holds out a hand and greets me with his characteristic "aaaaaah". I smile, I grab his grip hairy, and he lifts me, takes me in the heart of the sun, where everything gets lost in the warmth and white, where it burns everything.
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